


a thousand miles a minute (bright blooming future)

by ebonynightwriter



Series: Shallura Week 2016 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hurt / Comfort, Mentions of War, Modern AU, One-Shot, Shallura Week 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-15 04:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8043307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebonynightwriter/pseuds/ebonynightwriter
Summary: She wants to say something, needs to think of something, anything, to change his mind.





	a thousand miles a minute (bright blooming future)

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This is kind of a strange, loose interpretation of the prompt. Just popped into my head one night and wouldn’t leave me alone! (Modern AU, btw)
> 
> -.-
> 
>  **[shallura week (2016) // day 2](http://ebonynightwriter.tumblr.com/tagged/mine:%20shallura%20week%202016)** · bridge
> 
> -.-

He texts her at midnight.

_Meet me on the bridge._

She’s five hours into an all-night study jam _(finals,_ she thinks, _always come a week too early)_ and has her nose buried in the pages of a psychology book. But he knew that already, and she knows him. He’ll go anyway, her study-time or not, waiting like a tall oaf in the cold wearing nothing but a worn-out sweatshirt and a ratty scarf by the water’s edge. It’s aggravating to say the least, and she looks at the phone screen with distant interest, weighing over the options of ignoring it altogether. But in the end, she knows he’s expecting her. He wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.

The cold will wake her up.

.

.

.

It takes her ten minutes to reach the bridge, just outside the campus’ edge. The winter air is even colder this time of night, close to freezing, and she shoves her hands in her pockets as she steps nearer to the river, water rushing downstream. She forgot her gloves.

He’s standing twenty feet above the middle of the river, elbows rested against the thin metal rail as she walks briskly to him. She was right about the shirt and scarf, but he’s also wearing a beanie. A tuff of hair sticks out from its front, covering his forehead with a bushy fluff of black hair. Her boots click on the cement as she goes closer, and she hugs her arms around herself as he turns – she should have brought a thicker jacket.

“You made it,” he says with a smile. “Hope I didn’t interrupt you too much.”

She shrugs, bracing against the cold as a heavy burst of white air escapes her lungs.

“You could’ve picked someplace closer,” she says.

“Sorry,” he replies. “It was the first place I thought of.”

In an instant, he removes his scarf and wraps it gently around her neck. Normally she’d complain, but seeing as he looked perfectly fine in this weather and she felt like a popsicle, she wasn’t about to open her mouth for any unnecessary comments.

“So?” she asks, adjusting the scarf before her chin. “What did you want to talk about?”

His face flattens, gaze shifting back to the river as he steps to the rail again. Pressing his arms against the cold metal, he lets out a sigh, hands dangling over the edge. Allura steps closers to the railing as well, looking at him with her side beside the rods.

“It’s about Keith,” he says, his chest leaning to the edge. “He wants to enlist in the Air Brigade.”

“What?!” she says, placing a hand on the metal. “But he’s much too young! And what about Galaxy Garrison? That’s his—”

“—dream, I know.” Shiro sighs one more time. “That’s why I’m going in his place.”

She freezes, words stopped dead in her throat. Shiro glances at her. Allura stares at him. He looks back to the water, and continues speaking:

“The minimum they’ll take me for is three years; that’ll be more than enough time for Keith to get into Garrison, and maybe even see an end to this war,” he says. “I already made him a promise that we’d go to Kerberos together – but I wanted to tell you about this first.”

Her mouth twitches for half a second, air barely sliding through her lips. She blinks, and the shackles keeping her fall away at once. She shakes her head feverously.

“No, Shiro, you’re not thinking this through!” she says. “We’re almost done with school, you’re one of the best pilots I know! You’re a shoe-in at the Garrison! You’ll be able to teach the other cadets everything you know, and—”

“—you’ll be right next door, looking into why the brightest are shaking out in the second week,” he shifts, puts a hand on her shoulder. “I know that, _none_ of that’s changing. But I have to do this before then.”

“But—”

“Allura.”

His hand tightens, and she pulls it away, keeping her fingers pinched around his wrist. Her brow presses together, hard, and her throat aches against the cold. Her mind moves at a thousand miles a minute. She wants to say something, needs to think of something, _anything_ , to change his mind out of this stupid, rash decision that could cost him his _life_. Her hand stiffens, but they slip from him as he lowers the arm. She _can’t_ tell him not to go. That would be insulting. But it just _stupid_ that he’s even thinking this with his whole, bright blooming future ahead of him—

He steps closer, and puts his arms around her back.

And she knows him.

_There’d be no going out of this now._

.

.

.

The semester ends, and boot camp starts the month after. He flies across the country to a place that’s actually _warm_ , to learn techniques and skills he already knows. He learns others – like how to fire bullets out the wings of his craft, how to calculate how fast it takes him to speed away from a fight, how to lock on target, and how to pull impossible triggers. It goes on for months, and she talks and chats and even sends him a couple of letters. It almost feels like another class, one that’s just a little farther away.

Then he gets his orders, and flies again over the sea.

He doesn’t say _don’t wait for me._

But they do anyway.

.

.

.

He goes.

Twice, in fact.

The first time is a grueling eight months, and when he comes back she slams right into his chest, not giving him time to look up from the gate. Keith stands awkwardly on the outside, and they pull him into the group. Shiro smiles with earnest, his eyes bright and tired all at once, and she squeezes him so hard he says he’s going to burst.

They go back to Keith’s apartment, talk about everything they’d been doing since he left. They talk about Garrison entrance exams, about semesters and classes, about books and movies he’d like to see. They talk so much they order food at two in the morning, and by the time four o’clock comes around the living room is a mess of boxes and plastic ware. The scent of grease hangs by the ceiling. Keith sags out of a chair on the opposite side of the room, and Allura watches Shiro from her spot on the couch.

Legs stretched out beneath the coffee table, his arms lay slack and limp in his lap, while his head lops to the side. She smiles, dragging her finger once along the short hairs of his head, and pulls a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over him like a cape on a fallen warrior. He stirs as she’s adjusting it to his shoulders, and he reaches up to touch her hand. Their fingers curl around another, tightening for the smallest of moments before his grip loosens and his arm sinks back to the floor. She smiles, and pulls the blanket back over his shoulder.

Laying back on the couch, she stares into the darkness, and feels at ease.

.

.

.

News comes in the sparest of details.

_His plane. Shot down. Chance of survival slim to none. Body not recovered. Too deep in enemy territory. Deepest apologies._

_A fine, brave man._

She grips the table with knuckles made of titanium and steel. Her legs have turned to limp noodle-like limbs, far too weak to hold her up. Keith takes a chair and smashes it into a window. Punches a teacher in the face. He gets a month suspension from the Garrison. He doesn’t come back.

Seven months later, the war ends.

_Just like that._

.

.

.

She keeps going.

Tries to, anyway.

There’s so little time to do what needs to be done. The cadets are struggling with the new pilot instructor. They come to her and talk about quitting, how maybe they just weren’t cut out for this after all, and she listens and tells them what to do and thinks _he could’ve done so much for them. He could’ve done so much **better**._

She visits the grave as often as she can – but it’s less than she would’ve liked.

.

.

.

Three years pass – the cadets do better.

It’s early morning, and her car speeds through the desert and its dusty winds, blowing up a cloud a mile long. They’re supposed to be there to watch the satellite launch. Silvercloud-245: headed straight for orbit. She’s nearly there, the launch pad stands tall in the distance, and the gates of the facility are coming into view. Something buzzes on the passenger seat, and she loses her focus for just a moment, feeling for it with one hand…

They appear out of nowhere.

She swerves hard, and (thankfully) misses them. Her car lands with a heavy _thump_ against the ditch, and her head smacks the top of the steering wheel. Her vision blurs, blood running down and over her nose as she fumbles, trying to find the handle for the door.

It flies open before she has a chance to push, and someone reaches over and unfastens her seatbelt, pulling her right out of the car. Dust hangs in the air, and they set her down to sit against the side of her wreck of a vehicle, a hard hand _digs_ into her shoulders. She opens her eyes, and there’s a face that’s _way_ too close to hers. A man with a thick beard – black, though with the brightness of the sun on the horizon line she swears it’s also white. There’s a scar across the bridge of his nose, and she brings a hand to her eyes to rub the haziness from them, meeting his own a second later, and all the air leaves her lungs.

It’s like seeing a ghost.

 


End file.
